7

IN THE MORNING I told Disenk that I did not want to see the Master after all, that a good night’s sleep had allayed my anxieties. It was true that I was not being harmed, in fact I was being cared for scrupulously. Besides, my sight of the drunken princess had given me pause. Hui had connections in very high places. If I behaved myself, if I concentrated on trying to be obedient, one day I might be invited to serve at the festivities of the house. I might even be permitted to meet the Master’s aristocratic friends. That was a faint hope, I knew. I was beginning to learn of the gulf that existed between fellahin and noble. Until I had real cause for complaint I would put my vague worries to the back of my mind. I would, however, be vigilant. I would keep my eyes and ears open. Innocent though I was, I knew that such attention was not usually lavished on a minor servant, but I would enjoy it. I would play the game until the Master changed the rules.

My days settled into a rigid pattern. At dawn Nebnefer would come for me and together we would walk through the sleepy house to the pool, its surface always placid and unruffled in the fleeting hush of the hour. I would swim up and down, up and down, while Ra’s pink rays rapidly became a bright heat and Nebnefer shouted instructions and admonitions as he strode beside me.

I grew to long for the moment when he left me outside the bath house and Disenk would comfort me with perfumed water, and the masseur’s sure hands would soothe me with scented oils, kneading away the soreness of my muscles. The food awaiting me in my own room would taste like the nectar of the gods. Having eaten, my face would be painted and Disenk would dress me, telling me all the while of fashion and manners, of the methods of setting jewels and dressing wigs, how to get in and out of a litter gracefully, how to address priests and the nobility with the proper deference. I would listen silently, trying not to ask myself how all the prattle could possibly apply to me unless I was lucky enough to catch the eye of some young nobleman.

Once clad I would go to my lessons with Kaha, sometimes in the garden but more often in his tiny office, which was actually an ante-room to the Chief Scribe’s domain. In the morning I would read, with increasing fluency and understanding, the scrolls he chose. They usually contained old stories that ended in some moral maxim or other—the kind of tales that all mothers told their children—or were linked to my history lessons of the afternoons. But once in a while they were household accounts, orders for linen or wine, commissions for amulets and other pieces of jewellery.

After the noon meal, eaten in my room, we would change places. I would sit at his desk and labour to write what he dictated. My hand improved slowly. I began to develop a style of my own under his patient tutelage, and I came to trust and admire him. He teased me a great deal, disparaged many of my painstaking efforts, praised me rarely so that I learned to prize and labour hard for those few off-hand words, and consistently called me “little Libu princess.” I suppose that he became a kind of substitute for my dear Pa-ari for he was young and energetic and full of fun. Perhaps that was why I never felt physically attracted to him in spite of his eligibility. He was like an older brother, yet to be feared also, for I sensed that his opinion of me carried a lot of weight with his master, Ani, and hence with Hui also.

When my wrist cramped and I had managed more often than not to smear ink over my cheek or down my sheath, we would share beer and shat cakes. Then he would commence my history lessons. He was an entertaining teacher. He recited the king lists each day like poetry, inviting me to choose one pharaoh whose name intrigued me. When I had done so, he would begin the tale of the Osiris One’s life, his character, his achievements, his wars and his loves. Once a week he would test my knowledge both verbally and on papyrus. If I did well he would place in my hand a clay scarab, each one a different colour. I kept them in the box I had brought with me from Aswat, and the collection grew.

In the long, warm evenings, after I had eaten formally in my room, waited on by Disenk and expected to behave as though I was at a great banquet, she and I would walk about the gardens or recline by the lotus pond until sunset. Then I would be returned to my room where she would play the lute and sing to me, or teach me little dance steps.

For many weeks I would be tired by the time she snuffed the lamps and bade me a good night. But gradually, as I mastered my lessons and became accustomed to the unvarying routine, I grew restless, and often left the couch where she had dutifully laid the sheet over me. I would raise the window mat and kneel looking out over the dusky courtyard to the shivering trees beyond. The sounds of the city would come to me but faintly, all clamour mixed and muted to a faraway rumble. Sometimes a craft would pass unseen, but I would hear the shout of the captain, the splash of oars. Once a barge drifted by, so brightly lit that its lamps made a wavering glow through the trees. Then there was loud laughter and the babble of many voices, shrieks of mock terror and the frenetic pulse of many drums. I thought of the drunken princess and the red-kilted General as the cheerful cacophony faded and the river was silent again. Were they on board? Had the princess managed to inveigle the General into bed with her or had her lust been nothing more than the vacuous promptings of the wine? I would never know. I was an insect trapped in resin, a piece of flotsam washed into a secret corner of the Lake of the Residence while the current ran on strongly to the Great Green, without me.

Several times I hid and watched the Master’s dinner guests arrive and leave, the gaily caparisoned litters and black slaves come and go. Once I thought I caught a glimpse of the General slipping alone across the darkened courtyard but I must have been mistaken. I dreamed of him twice, a romantic figure in red lurking on the periphery of my vision, but I did not allow myself to think of these people much during my waking hours. Although I hated to admit it, they were as far out of my reach as Pharaoh himself, and I did not want to increase the growing agitation my enforced isolation was causing. I no longer knew what fantasies to conjure.

I saw the Master several times, very late at night, gliding like a wraith in the moonlight on his way to the pool with Kenna at his heels. I had no urge to disturb him. Perhaps I was learning a little patience. I half expected him to pause and glance up at me for I had the strong impression that he knew perfectly well I was watching him, but he never did and I was both relieved and disappointed.

Every month I dutifully dictated a letter to my family, knowing that Hui’s eyes would weigh my every word. I was tempted to say outrageous things about him but I repressed the childish desire. At first the task brought my family and my old home and the villagers vividly to mind and I would experience a surge of homesickness followed by a tumult of conflicting emotions, but as time went by my family began to lose substance, appearing as increasingly formal and stilted figures to my mind’s eye. I received word from them intermittently, or rather, the scrolls would come in Pa-ari’s neat, economical hand as they could afford it. My father and mother sent affectionate greetings but obviously did not dictate any news, for the letters’ idiom was all my brother’s. He wrote of the good harvest, the number of babies born in the village, who had become betrothed to whom, how his studies were progressing. He told me of the life of the temple, in which he was now intimately involved as a scribe, and of one of the dancers, the daughter of a neighbour, who was fast losing the clumsy coltishness of girlhood and acquiring interesting curves. I read this with a sudden lump of jealousy in my throat, for selfishly and illogically I did not want to share my brother’s affections with anyone. He did not go out on the desert much any more to watch the sunset, he said. It was not the same without me. He missed me very much. Did I miss him? Or was my new life so full and satisfying that I had no time to think of him? Beneath the friendly words I sensed his concern for me, and wondered if the Master sensed it also, for I was certain that the missives did not come to me fresh. They were naturally unsealed. Peasants did not bother with wax or cylinders or rings for imprinting. I was suddenly afraid, reading Pa-ari’s black script. I did not want to have his features become indistinct as time took us away from each other. I did not want him to be frozen in memories, doing and saying the same things over and over in my consciousness because we had no new experiences to share. Yet I knew that I would probably not see him again for many years, if ever. His scrolls, too, went into my box and I reread them often, fighting to keep them all—my clever, impatient mother, my taciturn, handsome father, our lively, inquisitive, earthy neighbours—vital and alive.

So my days followed their appointed pattern. The season of Shemu gave way to Akhet, the time of flooding, heralded by New Year’s Day, the first day of the month of Thoth. Everyone celebrated, servants and masters alike. Hui’s house and garden filled with the clamour of drunken festivity and the river was choked with the god’s worshippers. The noise of the city penetrated my room, but I was not allowed to join the crowds. I was not even allowed into the garden. Furious and disappointed, I sat at my window with Disenk while the other servants, those with whom I had shared food and comfort on the journey from Aswat and who had received me kindly, congregated happily under the trees and ate and drank to the glory of Thoth. I supposed that they had forgotten me by now. The officials of the household, Harshira, Ani, Kaha and the others, stayed apart from the slaves and kitchen labourers, feasting in Hui’s reception hall. Of Hui himself I saw nothing. As a Seer he would have spent the feast day in the temple of Thoth, being consulted by the god’s priests with regard to the coming year, and I had no doubt that he had fasted and remained in seclusion to prepare for the occasion, but the day drew to a close without a hint of his presence anywhere.

The month of Thoth passed, and Paophi and Athyr. The flood was high that year. Isis had cried copiously and the crops would be thick and bountiful. The season of Akhet ended with the month of Khoiak, and Peret, the time of receding waters and sowing, began. I was for the first time divorced from the slow, time-honoured rituals that bound the fellahin to the land. In Aswat my father and his neighbours would be out walking the fields every day to judge the quality of the silt spread by the now shrinking river, their feet sinking into the fertile mud, their talk all of what grain should be planted in which plot. Here in Hui’s house my own rituals had become just as unvaried, and the only sense I had of the changing months came from the lessening heat and a rise in humidity that brought clouds of mosquitoes into the garden.

Six months after my arrival in the Delta my lessons with Kaha took a new turn. My reading was becoming fluent and my writing improved every day, but it was in the study of history that the change began. One day, sitting in the grass beside the pool in an afternoon loud with the croaking of frogs and hazy with warm, diffused sunshine, Kaha handed me a scroll to recite. He had not begun, as he usually did, with the king lists, but ordered me to read the contents of the scroll aloud. I did so. It was not difficult. “One hundred and seven thousand slaves,” I intoned. “Three-quarters of a million arouras, half a million head of small and large cattle, five hundred and thirteen groves and temple gardens, eighty-eight fleet vessels, fifty-three workshops and shipyards …” I paused and glanced enquiringly at Kaha. “What is this?” He nodded once, brusquely.

“Keep reading.” I obeyed.

“One hundred and sixty-nine towns in Egypt, Cush and Syria. For Amun seventy thousand talents of gold and two million talents of silver a year. One hundred and eighty-five thousand sacks of grain a year.” The list was short. Kaha gestured but I did not let the scroll roll closed. I reread the figures silently.

“What do you think you have just recited?” Kaha asked. I shrugged.

“It is an inventory of some kind, and seeing that the Great Cackler Amun is mentioned I presume these are his … his tributes.” The sheer size of the numbers shocked me. Kaha flicked his whisk irritably at the flies gathering around the water jug.

“You are right. This is a list of all possessions of the gods in Egypt. Listen carefully, Thu. I am going to give you some figures, and when I have finished you are to take up the palette and write them down as you remember them.” I took a deep breath and prepared to concentrate. These memory exercises were often difficult and at such times I resented Kaha’s blithe ability to recount seemingly innumerable numbers without hesitation. “One person in every fifty in Egypt is temple property,” he began distinctly. “One hundred and seven thousand slaves. Of that number, Amun of Thebes owns eighty-six thousand five hundred. That is seven times the number owned by Ra. Say it back to me.” I did so, not yet allowing myself to think, only alert to take in and remember what he said. “Good,” he went on. “Of the three-quarters of a million arouras of temple land, Amun owns five hundred and eighty-three thousand. This is five times as much as Ra who owns one hundred and eight thousand arouras at On, and over nine times as much as Ptah at Abydos. Of the half a million head of cattle, Amun owns four hundred and twenty-one thousand, in five herds.” I closed my eyes, repeating the figures feverishly to myself. “Of the eighty-eight ships, Amun has eighty-three. Of the fifty-three workshops and shipyards Amun has forty-six. In Syria, Cush and Egypt, of the one hundred and sixty-nine towns owned by the gods, Amun has fifty-six. In Syria and Cush he has nine. He is the only god to own towns outside Egypt. Ra has one hundred and three towns. Are you lost?” I opened my eyes and smiled at him, but there was a small twinge of anxiety in the pit of my stomach that had nothing to do with the task.

“You forgot groves and gardens,” I pointed out triumphantly. “Of the five hundred and thirteen temple groves and gardens, how many belong to Amun?” He did not return my smile.

“Four hundred and thirty-three, impudent one,” he said. “Now give it back to me.”

To my amazement and, I think, to his surprise, I went through the exercise without one slip. It was as though his voice had sent the information flying straight to niches in my brain that had been formed and waiting for them. “Holy Isis,” I whispered. “The wealth! Seventy thousand talents of gold! And the silver, Kaha! Ten million six hundred thousand deben! I can’t …”

“One deben of silver will buy enough food to keep nine people alive for a year,” he said bluntly. “At Pharaoh’s last tax census the population of Egypt stood at five million three hundred thousand. Amun’s yearly tribute of silver would buy food for the whole of this country for nineteen years. He has seventeen times more silver, twenty-one times more copper, seven times more cattle, nine times more wine, and ten times more ships than any other god.” His tone was neutral and he was watching me steadily. The twinge in my belly was becoming an ache.

“Amun is a mighty God,” I said, whether in agreement or argument I did not know. “You have taught me that many hentis ago when Egypt was in the hands of barbarian invaders, Amun strengthened the hand of the great Osiris One Prince Sekhenenra of Thebes, and with the god’s help he drove out the Hyksos and gave the country back to its own people. In love and gratitude the Prince lifted Amun to become Egypt’s greatest God. He is deserving of our offerings.” I was thinking of Aswat’s beloved Wepwawet, and how the people would come on the god’s feast days with gifts for him, whatever they could afford. Flowers and freshly baked bread, pigeons, reverently woven linen, sometimes even a whole ox, and the men would each give his time in ploughing, sowing and reaping the little plot of land that belonged to the god.

“Of course he is,” Kaha agreed, but I was sure I heard sarcasm in his voice. “But is not Pharaoh the Horus of Gold, Incarnation of the God on earth? Does he not merit our offerings also, and the offerings of the priests who are surely his servants also, because of his divinity?” I did not know where this conversation was going but I was uneasy. I did not want to hear what Kaha was about to say, as though I had some intimation that yet another layer of my innocence was about to be stripped away.

“I suppose so,” I agreed cautiously. “Surely Pharaoh is himself a God.”

“Then why are the temples exempt from taxation? Why is the state of the royal treasury a scandal and a shame to every Egyptian who loves and respects his King? I have another history lesson for you, Thu. Listen well, and do not forget the numbers you have heard and recited today for they are a disgrace to this blessed country.” He spoke without force, without anger, yet with an intensity that trembled between us like a heat haze in the desert. “Pharaoh is entitled to one-tenth of all grain crops and animals from government land, from dues and monopolies, and from requisitions. But he may not touch the vast wealth of the gods. From this one-tenth he must support civil officials and the secular administration of Egypt. He must pay the army. He must support his households and his harems. And he must continually placate the servants of the gods, whose greed is insatiable and whose power is now almost absolute.” He had laid aside his whisk and had folded his hands in his white lap. His fingers were perfectly relaxed.

“I do not understand,” I broke in. “He is Amun on earth. He is the Horus of the Horizon, glorious in his majesty. He is the arbiter and upholder of Ma’at in Egypt, the embodiment of justice, truth and rightness in the universe. If Ma’at has become unbalanced he must set it right. This does not mean that he, a God himself, should do other gods a disservice.”

“He cannot set it right,” Kaha objected calmly. “After the time of the Good God Sekhenenra came strong kings who ruled with the wisdom and mercy and power of the gods. They worshipped Amun. Year after year they showed their gratitude to him by pouring riches into his coffers. But the prerogative of appointing his priests they retained to themselves, for they knew that though the God was perfect his servants were not. Thus they achieved harmony in Egypt, the harmony of Ma’at, temple and palace working together for the good of Egypt, with Pharaoh at the pinnacle, answering only to the God himself. But now Pharaoh must answer to the God’s servants, and they are arrogant and corrupt. They care nothing for Amun or for Pharaoh. They grow fat. Pharaoh can no longer appoint High Priests, for the office is passed from father to son, as though serving in the temple were a career instead of a responsibility. Other priests of lesser gods give their daughters in marriage to the priests of Amun, and so a net has been woven, Thu. The High Priest of Amun now rules all other priests everywhere. He also rules Pharaoh.”

I was shocked and very confused. Father had taught Pa-ari and me to regard Pharaoh as nothing less than a God on earth, all-powerful, all-wise, all-seeing, on whose word the Nile rose and fell, the preserver of Ma’at. The servants of the gods were also all-wise, custodians of Egypt’s health, men whose first duty was to enable Pharaoh to carry out the dictates of the gods and to do him homage as the living embodiment of all they held sacred. Pharaoh’s word was law, his breath brought warmth and plenty to Egypt. “Why does Pharaoh not dismiss the High Priests, all the greedy ones, and appoint persons more worthy?” I wanted to know. A sadness was welling up in me and I wanted to cry.

“He cannot,” Kaha said shortly. “They are richer than he, more closely knit than the officials of his administration, more able to influence those around him than he is himself. They even control the paying of the artisans who work on his tomb.”

“But what about the army?” I was thinking of my own father’s unswerving loyalty to Pharaoh. “Why can he not summon his generals and have the priests deposed by force?”

“Because an army must be paid, and to pay the army Pharaoh must often ask the priests for the means. Besides, the Egyptian army is now made up of many thousands of foreigners and mercenaries. If they are not paid they will not obey orders. If the priests approve of a royal project, the building of a temple, say, or a voyage to Punt or a trading expedition, they will give Pharaoh their permission. If not, well, he cannot afford their censure. Last year a new calendar of Feasts was inscribed on the walls of Pharaoh’s new temple at Medinet Habu. There is now a Feast Day for Amun every three days, as well as the customary days of observance. No one works on those days, Thu. It was a stupid decree and I would like to believe that Ramses had no choice in the matter.” He rose and I rose with him. I felt heavy and ungainly. “For our next history lesson I want you to ponder what I have told you and then give me your thoughts on what you would do to restore Ma’at to Egypt. Go now.” I bowed clumsily and walked away dazed, as though he had drugged my beer with poppy.

I could not drive Kaha’s figures from my mind. With an effort I moved through the remainder of my rigidly ordered day, strolling with Disenk, dining in my room with a formality that was fast becoming habit, taking a music lesson from Hui’s lute player who always became impatient with me because of my left-handedness. I tried to tell myself that Kaha could be wrong, that his interpretation of the situation between the Good God and the priests was one man’s opinion, but the sadness grew like grey smoke inside me, curling about my heart, stinging in my belly, its fumes filling my brain.

I grieved for the innocence of my parents, the trusting ignorance of the villagers who believed in the omnipotence of Pharaoh and who knew that whatever was wrong, the Mighty Bull would put it right. Could it be that Pharaoh’s divinity was a lie, that he was as weak, no, weaker than other men? I shied away from that consideration as from an open flame. I had been taught that the holy Uraeus, the rearing cobra on the Double Crown, would spit venom at anyone who tried to harm the King. Why did not Wazt, Lady of Spells, Defender of Kings, shower these venal priests with her righteous poison? Had Amun overcome her power, rendered her helpless?

I lay on my couch that night unable to sleep. Peaceful shadows painted the walls of my room. The sheets were cool and soft. No sounds drifted on the motionless air. The harmony of darkness and rest was complete. I began to cry, the tears slipping quietly across my temple to soak the pillow beneath. I did not know why I cried but my ka knew. It was for the crumbling of illusion, the destruction of a fond reality whose colours and contours had been dearly familiar to me from the time of my birth. That reality was a lie. Or was it? It had not been a lie in Egypt’s past. Surely it was possible somehow to restore true Ma’at, restore Pharaoh’s omnipotence and divinity, restore right worship … I put both hands over my mouth and the tears came faster. The sweet fantasies of my childhood could not be restored. They were gone, shredded and blown away in the strong wind of Kaha’s words. I was bereft.

The spending of my emotion did not bring exhaustion. Gradually the tears ceased to flow. I wiped my face on the sheet, reflecting half-hysterically how distressed Disenk would be if she knew that I had removed the skin treatment she so assiduously applied each evening, and tried to still my mind but could not. My eyes burned. My body was tense. In the end I rose, and wrapping a linen cloak over my sleeping shift I went out into the passage.

Disenk came awake at once, for as I stepped over her my robe brushed her face. She sat up. “What is wrong, Thu?” she whispered, no trace of drowsiness in her voice. “Are you ill?” She was an efficient watchdog.

“No,” I hissed back. “I cannot sleep and I thought I might walk about the house for a while.” She was on her feet in a trice.

“I will accompany you.” She groped on the floor for her own cloak but I gripped her arm.

“No! Please, Disenk! Just for once let me be alone. I promise you I will not go outside.” She was shaking her head even before I had finished speaking.

“It is not allowed,” she said firmly, anxiously. “I would be punished. Go back to bed and I will bring you a soothing drink.”

It was like trying to force my way through a papyrus thicket. The soft fronds swayed and gave but the stems were stiff, seeming to yield but snapping back as soon as my hand left them. I wanted to shake her. For answer I turned and strode away down the corridor. She gave a small bleat of protest and I heard her light footsteps pattering behind me.

The stairs descended into gloom. I took them absently, passed the Chief Steward’s empty table, and entered the passage that ran transversely to the reception hall. At the end of it a faint yellow light wavered over the polished floor. He was still at work in his office. Without bothering to tell Disenk what I intended I approached the door and knocked. Behind me she gave a low exclamation but it was too late. The door was opening.

“Forgive me, Harshira, but I need to talk to you,” I said swiftly, before Disenk could address him. He looked very tired. The skin around his eyes sagged and his shaven skull was slick with sweat. He wore only a rumpled kilt and his sandals. But if I had thought to catch him off guard I was mistaken. His gaze sharpened, slipped to Disenk, then back to me. One imperious hand waved the body servant to the floor. The other beckoned me inside. I obeyed and the door was shut.

It was not surprising that his light had not filtered up to me, for the mat had been down over my window and the only illumination in this room came from a small alabaster lamp on the desk. The rest was in deep shadow. Harshira lumbered to his chair and indicated that I might sit also. I did. We faced each other across the littered desk. His features, lit feebly from below and to the side, were like something out of a demon dream, the black eyes sunk in sockets made even more prominent by the exaggerated hollows below, the mountainous cheeks no longer smooth but a nightmare landscape of planes and valleys that slid into new forms as the tiny flame danced in its stone cup. I suppose I looked no better. For some time he regarded me, then he sighed, and pouring wine from the jug at his elbow he pushed the goblet across to me.

“You have been crying,” he said matter-of-factly. “Drink.” I did so. The violet liquid was dry and refreshing and I drained it quickly. It touched the pain in my abdomen with a different, more earthy fire than the sadness, enclosing and shrinking it. I put the cup on the desk and he promptly refilled it. “Are you going to tell me what is wrong or are you going to guzzle my wine and disappear in silence?” he said wryly. I drank again before answering, then grasped the cup with both hands.

“I am troubled, Harshira,” I began, not really aware until later that I had addressed the great man by his name instead of his title, but he did not object. He made no move. Those black eyes of his remained fixed on me. “Today Kaha told me things that have distressed me. I cannot believe them. I do not want to believe them! I need to know if they are true or not.” His eyebrows rose.

“What things?”

I told him. As the wine slowed my tongue and deliciously loosened my body I repeated all that Kaha had said. The numbers were still there in my brain, ready to spew from my mouth like some terrible, indigestible fruit. “I do not deny the figures,” I finished. “But the matter of the Good God’s helplessness—is that merely Kaha’s assessment or is it truly a part of what Egypt has become? Tell me, Harshira, for it is as though someone I love dearly has died!” He let out his breath slowly and pursed his thick lips, then he folded his arms and leaned on the desk.

“I am sorry, Thu, but it is as Kaha says,” he replied. “For you it is a shock. The common people live and labour far from the labyrinthine weavings of power. Their vision of Egypt is an ancient and simple one. Without it they would lose heart, and Egypt herself would falter and dissolve into barbarism. They must go on believing that Pharaoh sits at the pinnacle of divine and secular authority and can do no wrong. We live in an age of peculation and greed, dishonesty, ambition and cruelty.”

“But it should not be that way!” I burst out. “I have been diligent in my studies of history and I know that it is not right, it has never been right! Do the priests not fear the vengeance of Ma’at? What of their judging when the ka leaves the body? Why does Amun allow such things?”

“Perhaps Amun has withdrawn his favour,” Harshira said gently. “Perhaps he, too, waits for a cleansing tide of anger to sweep the country on his behalf and for Pharaoh.” I lifted the cup with trembling hands and drank more wine. He broke off until I had swallowed. “You are not alone in your indignation, Thu,” he went on. “Many of us hate what is happening, and people like the Master who have access to the palace and the temples are continually trying to counter the insupportable pressure the priestly hierarchy places on the Double Crown. But part of the problem lies with Ramses himself. In battle, in defence of this country, he has been a brilliant tactician. But he does not seem able to fight his enemies within our borders. I expect that Kaha has asked you to put forward a solution of your own. What would it be?” He was speaking to me without a trace of his usual coldness or sarcasm. He smiled at me with a kind of dismal complicity as I hesitated, trying to think past the effects of the wine.

“I have only just heard how things are,” I said slowly. “If the great ones cannot find an answer, how can I? I am still aching, Harshira. I do not know. Everything I held to be right is gone.”

“Not everything,” he contradicted me kindly. “Pharaoh is still on his throne. The foreigners try to force their way past our defences and so far have failed. Egypt has an imbalance but she is still Egypt, glorious and eternal. It is up to those of us who are aware of the true state of affairs to do something about it, and we will.” He heaved himself free of the chair and came around the desk. Taking me firmly under my arms he helped me rise. To my dismay I staggered as he let me go. He chuckled drily. “You will sleep now,” he said, “and by tomorrow you will have considered the question Kaha has put to you with the objective coolness of a good pupil. You will give a dispassionate answer and argue with your teacher respectfully. Will you not?” I looked up at him through scarcely focused eyes.

“No, I will not,” I managed with difficulty. “It will never be a matter of cold discussion for me. I am distraught, Harshira.” Now he laughed, but I was not so incapacitated that I could not see the way he was looking at me, with humourless speculation.

“You are drunk,” he said, “and that is good. It is just what you needed. Now go with your faithful little escort, Thu, but remember that there are many who care as you do, many who strain to restore the purity of Ma’at, and the members of this household are among the most zealous.” He patted me on the back. “Go.” I wanted to fling myself into his arms, to feel the reassurance of a father’s embrace, but of course I did no such thing. All the same, I thought to myself hazily as I made my way carefully out the door and Disenk rose to pad after me, there has been a subtle change in my relationship with the Chief Steward. He addressed me as an equal.

When I woke the following morning the edge of my distress had been blunted but by no means erased. I saw that I had reacted to Kaha’s lesson with the outraged offence of a spoiled child; nevertheless an adult sadness and anger remained. My peasant innocence had gone as surely as the days of my country’s ancient innocence, and would not return. I could not calmly ponder a solution to Kaha’s question. I was still too emotionally engaged for such an exercise, and all I could picture was a great hand sweeping away all of them, priests, foreigners and Pharaoh himself, so that Egypt could begin afresh. I told Kaha so when we met in his tiny cubicle that afternoon.

“You do not look well,” he observed crisply as I sank onto my habitual stool beside him. “You need to fast, cleanse your body.”

“I need a better night’s rest and a more optimistic lesson from you,” I replied tartly. “I am sorry, Kaha, but I have come to no conclusion with regard to the assignment you set me.”

“Well let us hope that you have remembered the numbers,” he drawled. “Say them.” Wearily I did so. They were still there in my mind, clear and black and uncompromising. I thought he was going to rub his hands together when I had finished. “Excellent!” he exclaimed. “Very good, Thu. Your powers of recall are prodigious. Now can you not hazard even a guess as to what might be done?”

I sighed inwardly and made a feeble attempt. “Pharaoh could send to Babylon or Keftiu for gold with which to pay soldiers to overthrow the priests,” I offered. “Or use them to confiscate the temples’ wealth. He could have the priests murdered. He could enter into a deceit whereby the God appears to speak to the High Priest, expressing his divine displeasure and commanding that his son, Pharaoh, be re-established as the ultimate power in Egypt.” Kaha snorted derisively.

“You are indeed not your usual nimble-witted self,” he retorted. “Such things have already been considered and broached to the Mighty Bull with cautious tact. He reacted with horror and puzzlement. He will not risk offending Amun, not in the slightest degree. What if it is the God’s wish that his servants rule instead of his son? What if the end did not justify the means and Egypt’s final fate was worse than it is now? Besides, Thu, Ramses is afraid and tired. He is forty-five years old. He has fought three great battles to keep the eastern tribesmen and the sea peoples from pouring into Egypt and claiming its fertility as their own. Each time he has returned to Pi-Ramses as to a place of safety and peace, a nest where he can curl up after having done his duty and where he chooses to ignore the increasing corruption around him. If he fouls that nest by attempting to change the situation, and if he should fail, he will have no safe place left in which to retire if circumstances force him to go to war again. At least if he closes his eyes he can cling to the pretence that he still rules Egypt and of course the priests give him all the respect and reverence due to his position, even though their words are empty.”

“If I were Pharaoh I would risk everything for a chance to restore Ma’at!” I broke in hotly, and Kaha laughed.

“But you are not forty-five years old and scared and tired,” he pointed out.

There was a brief silence between us.

“What of the Hawk-in-the-Nest?” I wanted to know. “Has Pharaoh appointed his successor yet? Surely a strong son would do his best to persuade his father that his inheritance must be secure.” Before he answered, Kaha seemed to consider. He began to toy absently with a papyrus scraper on his desk, his gaze travelling the untidy, scroll-crammed recesses of his walls. Finally he looked at me.

“Ramses has not yet designated an heir,” he said. “The royal sons fall over each other in the harem. Ramses has many women, and several wives, all of them fertile. He is obsessed with the question of the succession but he cannot make a decision. Which of his many fully legitimate sons will make a good Horus of Gold? The priests have their own choices, of course, and pester him with their merits. Ramses knows that if he does nothing there will almost inevitably be bloodshed upon his death as his sons, with their supporters, battle for supremacy. Yet he does not dare to declare for any one of them in case he loses what tenuous power he has. He has tried to weed them out.”

“What do you mean?” I asked apprehensively. Kaha shrugged.

“Six of his legitimate princes died suddenly, very close together. The Master believes that Ramses had them murdered. It was a desperate attempt to thin the ranks of potential heirs to the Horus Throne. Ramses cried and beat his breast and they were buried with full pomp, but I do not think he was suffering overmuch.” I felt little. The major blow to my gullibility had been struck the day before.

“It was the action of a weak man,” I said slowly, “if it is true. Is there no prince left who can shoulder the responsibility of restoring Ma’at?”

“There is Prince Ramses,” Kaha replied. He had relinquished the scraper and was drumming his fingers almost soundlessly on the surface of the desk. “He is twenty-six, strong and handsome, but he is an enigma, a man who spends much of his time alone in the desert. No one is close to him, not even his father. His political sentiments are unknown.” I was all at once aware of Kaha’s intensifying attention fixed on me. His fingers whispered on, tap tap across the wood, and he was still relaxed, but he was waiting eagerly for my response. I stirred on my stool.

“It seems to me,” I said bitterly, “that there are no scruples left anywhere in this country but in the remotest villages. Therefore why not commit the final blasphemy? Ascertain the Prince’s position. If by some chance his heart bleeds for Egypt, then remove Pharaoh entirely and place his son on the Horus Throne. Of course, those who did so would then become the real power. If the Prince is as gutless as his father, find another legitimate princeling, a baby or child, one who has no conviction, and elevate him to Godhead.”

“Your intelligence is truly fearsome for your age, precocious one,” Kaha said softly. “But you know that you speak high treason. Anyone entertaining such nefarious schemes would be endangering their immortal ka as well as their body. Who in Egypt would take such a terrible risk? Is there no other way?”

“Seeing that this is merely an academic discussion,” I responded bleakly, “I must say that of course there must be other ways, but I cannot think of any. May we pursue another subject today, please Kaha? I am surfeited with the agonies of the King.” Immediately his hands were stilled. He straightened.

“Very well,” he said, and smiled sunnily. “Today you can practise taking the dictation for a very lengthy and horribly wordy letter from the Overseer of Royal Monuments to the Chief Mason at the quarries of Assuan. I, naturally, will play the part of the Overseer. You are his long-suffering scribe.”

The lesson ended on a cheerful, almost hilarious note, but when it was over and Kaha dismissed me I felt exhausted and curiously soiled. I would have been glad to submerge myself in the timeless indifference of the Nile. As it was, I did not return to my room. I wandered out into the garden and sat hunched beneath a thick bush, my chin on my knees, eyes on the play of brilliant light and grey shade just beyond my feet. I was still there two hours later when a flustered servant found me and I was led, unprotesting, to where Disenk waited in the hot dazzle of the courtyard, wringing her little hands and almost weeping in consternation. I did not care. Turning a deaf ear to her words of reproach I followed her into the house.